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WAKE, ye Wet Windes, through the lonely dale, And, Fancy, to thy faerie bowre betake! Even now, with balmie frehnee, breathes the gale, Dimpling with downy wing, the tilly lake; Through the pale willows faultering whipers wake, And Evening comes with locks bedropt with dew; On Demonds mouldering turrets lowly hake The trembling rie-gras and the hare-bell blue, And ever and anon faire Mullas plaints renew.